


Where No One Can Hear You Scream

by trollmela



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Serial Killers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wold is haunted by a murderer who targets young Rohirric girls. Théoden King sends Éomer to find the killer, be it man or elf, and he and his men are led on a chase from one settlement to the next, always hoping that this time they’ll be in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where No One Can Hear You Scream

**Author's Note:**

> The story was inspired by watching too many Criminal Minds episodes in a row.
> 
> Set a couple of years before the War of the Ring.

A cold wind blew over the Wold. Hild shivered, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. Just a bit longer and she would be back home at her parents' hut and snuggle under the furs, next to her sister, who was probably waiting up for her.

A horse neighed in the distance and Hild thought she recognized it as one of her uncle's horses. Another sweep of the wind bent the tall grass to the ground. And suddenly, almost unnoticeable over the noise of the wind, it sounded as if someone was walking nearby. She looked around, but saw nothing. Still, she could not completely shake it off and went on walking faster. There was a pile of man-high rocks she had to pass and once she was over the high ground, she would be able to see her hut.

She was late, having stayed too long at her friend's; it was dark and cold with winter near. Tomorrow, she, her mother and her sister would make bread, while the men were out with the cattle. She looked forward to the cattle market in a couple of days, one of the few occasions where people from all over the thinly populated Wold would meet. Perhaps she would see the boy from last year again, the one with the warm, brown eyes and perhaps he would see her, too.

Hild was so deeply in thought that she did not realize that she was not alone. It was too late when strong arms wrapped around her in a restraining grip, a hand clamped down over her mouth to muffle her instinctive screams and she was dragged away from the path. Her kicks and struggles availed her nothing. She would never reach her home and her sister would wait for her in vain, eventually waking their parents when Hild still had not arrived.

* * *

"Théodred! So good to see you! How are things in Helm's Deep?"

Éomer and Théodred embraced, hands clasping each other's arms.

"They're good. Well prepared for winter, I would say. We won't have to worry about them, cousin." Théodred gave him a once over. "You look as if you've got your winter fat already." He laughed loudly.

The other man rolled his eyes. "Talking out of your arse now, are you?" He shook his head theatrically. "Low, cousin, low."

Théodred only laughed again. "Father is in the middle of petitions, is he?" He asked.

Éomer nodded. "I was just on my way inside."

"Great. Follow me then like a good little marshal."

They entered the hall unobtrusively through a side door and sat down onto a bench along the wall. This way they could watch the events without attracting attention or distracting anyone. Théoden glanced over at them briefly before turning his full attention back to the man he was speaking to.

Théodred looked at the other petitioners still remaining, noting a huge man he thought he recognized from the Aldburg and a group of three consisting of an old woman with long, braided grey hair, what seemed to be her husband, and a younger woman who did not look related to them. While it was not unheard of for women to come to the King, Théodred didn't think that this group was from Edoras.

He nudged Éomer's leg slightly with his foot. His cousin looked up.

"Hm?"

Théodred jerked his head in the direction of the group. "Do you recognize any of them?"

Éomer's brows drew together in thought. "No, I don't think so," he declared. "Why?"

"I wonder what they want."

The younger man slouched back to lean against the wall. "You'll probably hear soon enough, Uncle is done with this one."

Théodred, ever the curious one, beckoned for Hador, Théoden's herald, to come over. Once the man was close enough, the prince asked in a low voice:

"Where does that group of three come from?"

"They come from the Wold, my prince."

Théodred and Éomer rose an eyebrow. It was, after all, a long way to the capital and such a short time before the harvest it had to be something dire that sent them.

"There has been a series of murders," Hador continued, anticipating the younger man’s question.

"I see," Théodred said. He and Éomer exchanged glances. Although used to war and, more recently, orc attacks, murders were unusual. "Are they next?" He asked.

"I can have them come up next, if you prefer. I thought it might be better to leave long stories for the end."

"No, you're right. Let's wait then."

"Herefara will have the same petition as every year anyway, he should be done soon."

Théodred remembered that Herefara was the giant he knew to be from the Aldburg. He nodded and Hador returned to his post.

"A series of murders is the last we need in these times," Éomer grumbled, picking some dirt from his boots and giving the people a glance from beneath his hair. The younger woman had evidently seen Hador speak to them but she quickly glanced away when she saw Éomer looking.

"Murders are never convenient, cousin," Théodred merely replied.

Once the King was done with both of the next petitioners, the three Rohirrim from the Wold were finally allowed to give their petition. Théodred leant forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. Thankfully the acoustics were good in the hall and he didn't need to come closer to hear every word.

The three Rohirrim bowed respectfully.

"Greetings, King Théoden," they said.

"Greetings to you as well. What are your names and where do you hail from?"

"I'm Brytta," the man began, "this is Milburga," he indicated the older woman, "and this is my niece Leofrun," he pointed to the younger woman. "We come from the Wold."

"A long way," Théoden noted. "And at this time of the year. Let me hear your petition then, for it must be of importance."

The man took a deep breath. "We come to Edoras for help. For about four months now, young women and girls have gone missing from our villages and huts. They are usually found two to five days later, their throats cut. We live in a large area, as you know, my king. We are few and yet among these few there lives a murderer, and we do not know who he is, where he comes from or why he does what he does. We did not know for a long time that there was a connection but now we are certain that eight of our women were killed by the same beast – and that beast is not an orc."

"How do you know it's not orcs?"

"Sire, I've fought orcs before. I have seen what orcs do to their victims. They do not braid their hair in exactly the same style. They do not lay them on their backs in the field with a flower in their fingers. Orcs take what they want and the rest they leave to the crows."

Théoden frowned. "That is indeed very specific. The murderer braids their hair and gives them flowers? Why?"

Brytta shook his head. "We do not know. We do not understand any of this and we have found it to be beyond us to find the murderer himself. While we suspect that he is no orc, we do not even know whether he is a man or an elf sent by the sorceress of Dwimordene. He travels around and no family seems to be safe from him. Our womenfolk are afraid, they hardly dare gather wood or go to the horses unless the men are around. Please, my King, help us and send someone to the Wold who will find this creature, be it elf or man or something else!"

"Elf, you say?" Théoden asked. "That is an unusual accusation to make. There have been no elves in Rohan for decades!"

The old man shrugged. "That is what some people say. As I said, my King, we do not know."

"Very well. Do you have lodgings here in Edoras?"

"My nephew will take us in," Milburga, the older woman, said.

"That is well then. Take your leave now and rest and return tomorrow. Then I will tell you who will travel with you to the Wold."

The three breathed a visible sigh of relief.

"Thank you, King Théoden," Brytta said and his companions nodded in agreement.

They were shown out and the King stood. Théodred and Éomer took it as a sign to approach.

"Théodred," Théoden greeted, embracing his son briefly, but warmly. "When did you come home?"

"Just an hour ago, Father."

“Does the Deep still stand then?” Théoden asked jestingly.

His son laughed. “Indeed it does. I am surprised myself at its sturdiness. All is well there, father. We have noted no unusual activity in a while. Unlike in the Wold, I would say.”

Théoden nodded in agreement. “You heard it all then?”

“Every word they said. Braiding hair and putting flowers in their victims’ hands is indeed not a sign of orcs. But what else?”

Théoden frowned. “I dislike to think it but in the absence of orcs it must be men.”

“You don’t believe that the elves are involved then?” Éomer now asked.

The king shook his head slowly, his expression grim. “I believe that we do not need elves to do evil. Men are plenty enough. Still, it is on us to make certain.” He looked straight at Éomer. “I want you to go, Éomer. It is no doubt a task that will require your mind more than your sword arm. But I believe that it is a good idea, and I need Théodred elsewhere.”

The king’s nephew bowed his head in acknowledgment. “As you wish, my king.”

Théoden clapped the younger man on his shoulder. “You’ll do well. Tomorrow, we’ll tell Brytta and his companions. How soon could you ride back to the Wold with them?”

“As soon as they’re ready,” Éomer assured.

* * *

“It’s an elf from Dwimordene!”

“And how do you know that?” Éomer asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone knows that. If anyone enters those woods, they never come back. I bet some elven bastard lures them with pretty promises into the woods, assaults them and kills them.”

Éomer dismissed the man’s scenario. “Only to return the bodies to Rohan?”

“To make us think that a Rohirrim did this, of course!” The man continued insistently.

The Third Marshal shook his head. “Elves don’t die. They don’t need our women.”

The man did not look convinced but Éomer ignored him. His was a trying task indeed. He spoke with the people to find out as much as he could about the murderer. But so far it had been in vain. They believed in fairy tales and myths rather than facts, and the tracks of the most recent murder were too old to follow.

The Wold was sparsely populated, which made Éomer’s task no easier. The distances were long, and he had no possibility of guarding every maiden who lived in the area. The killings happened on both sides of the Limlight, a river which flowed down from the Misty Mountains and then through Fangorn into the Anduin. The Limlight had quite a few fords which enabled a rider to cross easily. Éomer had considered whether the killer might be on foot, but that would certainly have drawn attention in the realm of the horselords.

He had taken fifteen men with him from Edoras and ordered them to spread out. He hoped that in this way he would hear earlier when another woman was taken. It would not help her, as it would take a great deal of luck to find the man before he killed his victim. It appeared that the killer had progressed from keeping his victim from two days to five days, but it was unlikely that it would be enough. Yet the Third Marshal hoped that he would at least have fresher tracks to work with.

He himself had decided to watch the area in the north, near the border to the elven realm Lothlórien. To call it a border was of course an exaggeration: there was no defined line between the two countries. It was rather divided by a large strip of unoccupied and unclaimed land, and Éomer searched it for two days to see whether it was indeed as empty as he expected it to be. He could find no evidence at least of any man living and hiding there. He found no recent tracks either leading from the Dwimordene to the Wold, nor back.

But he was a man who did his duty to his people, and even if neither he nor the King believed in the people’s superstitions, he approached the forest and rode along the trees. Although he was not actually in the forest, he was still overcome by an eerie feeling, a weight on his mind and more than once he had to force his thoughts to stop galloping down wild paths and to remain with him in the here and now. He might not believe in the idle chatter of old wives; but in all his time he had not seen a single elf and thus he had nothing to base his believes on. He thought that he knew enough to stay away from their dwellings.

Yet, without meaning to, he rode his horse deeper into the Dwimordene until tall trees surrounded him. He could make out no trodden path, and the air was filled with silence but for the callings of birds.

“My Lord,” one of his men spoke up, his voice practically trembling with nervousness.

Three men he had kept by his side to aid him, all others had left his side to scour the Wold.

Éomer reigned in his horse. He had never meant to travel so far into the forest. Why had he not noticed where he was riding? He cursed himself silently.

“Do you think the killer is an elf after all?” The man inquired, voice low as if afraid someone might overhear him.

“I doubt it,” Éomer replied. He had to force himself to speak at a normal level.

A loud crack of wood sounded and the Rohirrim started. Éomer jerked around in the saddle, scrutinized their surroundings and trying to penetrate the trees and bushes with his eyes. He saw nothing. An animal, perhaps. As he studied a particular spot in the distance, leaves were thrown up by a breeze Éomer couldn’t feel. He did not like the place.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

His companions were more than happy to follow. They eyed the forest suspiciously, and Éomer regretted ever leading them there. He rested his hands on his steed’s neck to hide the tremble in them and breathed an inaudible sigh of relief when they left the trees.

They spent the night on the shores of the Anduin at the hut of a family of five. They had two grown sons and a teenage daughter who was already promised to a man. Éomer slept outside with his men despite the parents’ offer to use their bed because he felt that he needed the starlit night to find rest, but even so his dreams were invaded by trees too tall for a man used to plains.

The next day started early. They were enjoying a sheep the family had slaughtered for them when a rider approached at a gallop. Éomer recognized him as one of his own men and rose from his seat.

“My Lord, They’ve found another victim,” he reported breathlessly.

“Where?” Éomer demanded.

“Half a day’s ride from here, my Lord, south of the Limlight.”

“When was she found?”

“Yesterday night. Her uncle found her by chance, she’d been gone for five days, like the maid before. We believe that she was killed the day before yesterday.”

Éomer tried to think. By the time he got to the place, her body and all traces would be more than a day old. He couldn’t afford to wait, he had to see her as soon as possible but the Rohirrim in front of him had ridden hard, probably through the night with no sleep and his eyes open for his commander’s campfire. He needed rest, and so did his horse.

But it was daylight, and Éomer was confident that he could find the victim’s family without a guide, as long as he knew where he had to ride.

“You can stay here and follow us when you’ve slept and your horse is rested. Tell me where the family lives and we shall ride ahead.”

The man nodded. Without needing the order, Éomer’s men started saddling their horses while the rider described the area as best as he could. When they set out, the Third Marshal was confident that he would not miss it.

Éomer had seen quite a few dead men in his time as a soldier. Dead women he saw less often; sometimes when a village had been attacked, but he had rarely needed to deal with the aftermath. Usually, the villagers took care of their own and all he had to do was assure the people of King Théoden’s protection and then head off to slay the orc band responsible.

This was new. The maid’s skin was pale and strange to the touch. Her hair was dull and while she had not been the most beautiful when alive, he already knew that she had been charming. Her older sister had told him. They had lost their parents some time ago, and the girls had lived with their uncle until the older sister had married. Then she had taken her younger sibling, Fridiswid, in.

Just like he had been told in Edoras, her hands were clasped on her chest. When she had been found, she had been clutching three flowers in her fingers: white lilies. It was the same flower as what had been put in the other women’s hands.

“There must be some significance to this flower,” Éomer remarked. It certainly did not lie in the flowers which had been chosen – they were ordinary. He was glad they had not been thrown away anyhow.

Next, he looked at the maid. She had been laid out on her own bed in her chamber. Her throat had been slit from side to side, in a long but clean cut. When he looked at her wrists, he knew why: they were bruised, so she must have been tied up and thus been prevented from resisting. She had not stood a chance. He lifted the furs from her feet to see similar bruises on her ankles.

The marshal turned to the woman standing by the door to the rest of the house; she acted as a healer in the area and had examined the body.

“Was she violated in any way?” He inquired.

He had noted that the body had been left the way it had been found: she was dressed in the clothes she had disappeared in, and she had not been washed yet.

Hereswith gazed back at him with a grave expression. “She was not raped. But... there are bite marks on her body.”

“Where exactly?”

“On her inner thighs and her right shoulder. Three in total, nowhere else.”

“Strange,” Éomer mused. He pulled the collar of her dress aside and found the mark the healer meant. He could see the clear imprint of teeth and a red-bluish hue. It appeared that the mouth the teeth belonged to were neither particularly large or small. The crescent line was crooked, showing that the man’s teeth were not straight, and there was a gap nearly right in the middle. The killer had lost a tooth.

“I believe that he was not able to,” Hereswith said. “If he were, he would not have stopped at the bites.”

Éomer looked back at her. The healer shifted slightly, clearly unused to being in the presence of a man of such high rank.

“Men like that often become angry,” she elaborated. “He may be letting it out on the maids. He must have bitten very hard and shortly before her death to leave such clear marks.”

“I think you may be right. It’s all the more reason to find this man quickly. You did not change her clothes, did you?”

“No, my Lord. You men requested that you see her as we had found her.”

“I couldn’t help but wonder... he killed her by slitting her neck. The front of her dress should be covered in blood.”

She nodded. “I noted that as well. I think she was naked when he killed her; then he must have washed away the blood and dressed her in her clothes.”

“Strange indeed. One does not wash what one doesn’t care about.”

The healer shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “I do not understand it myself, my Lord.”

Nor did Éomer. But he believed that he did not need to understand the killer to catch him. He rose from his crouch by the bed.

“Thank you for letting me see her like this. You may tell her family that they can prepare her for the funeral now.”

She bowed her head. “Thank you, my Lord. I pray that you may find that beast.”

So did Éomer. He asked the sister’s husband to show him the place where the maid had been found. It was no unusual spot. The grass was high, and had hidden the body for a while until her uncle had practically stumbled over her. He took his men and searched the area for traces. At last, they found a hoof print in the mud leading away from the settlement.

It was no easy feat, following tracks nearly two days old. But Éomer himself was no bad tracker, and he had brought Swidhelm with him, who had the best eyes of the south. In addition, there had been little wind in the past two days and the ground was soft and muddy. Yet, they suffered a stroke of bad luck only a day later, when heavy rain set in and a sharp wind rose. It did not merely make riding uncomfortable, it also swept away the tracks of their killer.

They found shelter in a settlement where they were welcomed into the largest home to dry themselves by the fire. Frustration bore on Éomer. He feared for the next maid to cross the murderer’s path but there was little he could do. His men probably knew what he was thinking, were probably thinking the same thing. After a hot meal, Swidhelm and three others asked permission to scout out the area despite the rain and turn back at nightfall. 

It rained for hours until at last, shortly before dusk, the flood stopped. Éomer left the hut to keep an eye out for his scouts. The first to return had gone south, the next came from the east and the banks of the Anduin, the third from the west and at last, Swidhelm returned from the north.

“A maid disappeared from a settlement this morning. The villagers have searched the whole area, but they haven’t found her. She might be the murderer’s next victim.”

“How certain can we be?” Éomer asked.

Swidhelm didn’t even need to think about it; he had probably turned the thought over even before making the journey back.

“Reasonably certain.” Naturally, there was no guarantee. “She was not the type to take lovers, and all other inhabitants are accounted for. As are the herds, so she could not have gone to search for an errant animal.”

“We ride then. Do you need rest?”

“I’m fine. It’s not far, we can be there before midnight, but I made enquiries before returning here, which is why I did not come back earlier. Are the others-?”

“Already inside. They found nothing.”

 

The Rohirrim saddled their horses and Éomer told their host that they were leaving. Not much later, they were back in the saddle. Just as Swidhelm had predicted, they arrived shortly before midnight, and the villagers were still wide-awake.

With torches they were searching for the missing maiden, and when Éomer and his men arrived, they were greeted by a woman sitting in front of her hut trying to console a young boy of perhaps five while suppressing her own tears. When the Third Marshal appeared in front of her, she stood.

“Lord Éomer, your scout said you would come. I’m Muriel, Nerienda’s mother. Thank you for coming.”

Despite her obvious distress, she showed remarkable restraint, and Éomer found himself admiring her for that.

“Nerienda has not been found then?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Where was she last seen?”

“With our horses, they graze up that path there.”

She pointed to a trodden, muddy path which led westwards.

“Do you have any torches left?”

“Enough, my Lord. But do you not wish to rest first?”

She studied the horses. Éomer knew that they were pushing them, but he thought that they could handle a bit more. He did not want to leave them either, in case they needed to chase their foe. The stars were out, and the skies were clear, despite the fact that it had rained so heavily not far from here. Every hour was of essence, and he lived on the hope that they could find some trace of the maid so soon after her disappearance.

“Your people have been searching for a long time, I gather. We will take up their duty.”

Muriel bowed her head. “My thanks. Wait here just a moment.”

She disappeared behind the hut with her son. When she returned, she and the boy carried bundles of torches Muriel handed two of them to each rider.

Their pace was slow, and once they overtook the villagers – most of whom refused to go to their beds – the Rohirrim jumped off their steeds and continued on foot, leading the animals by the reins. They checked for tracks, of which there were too many after the villagers’ search, and for any hiding places, which could be found aplenty in the area. The ground was grassy and had been trampled flat by the villagers.

The hour grew late and Éomer was beginning to tire.

“It can’t be,” he growled. “Why does this beast of a man continue to elude us?”

As if Eru had heard him, a horn was blown not far from him. And again. One of his men had found something. It was a matter of moments to swing himself on his horse and ride as fast as he could towards the sound.

He was close enough to hear voices before the horn sounded a third time, and the voices were angry. Two of his men stood there, Cenric and Oswine, and their torches in combination with his lit enough of the scene to see. A body lay at their feet, an unclothed maid one of his men had thrown his cloak over. Her face was still visible, wide-eyed and scared, frozen in the moment of her death.

He cursed and jumped to the ground. Her throat had been cut, too, but it was a messy cut as if the killer had been in a hurry and she was still gagged. On looking closer he realised that she was not naked as he had at first thought, but that her dress had been sliced open from the collar. She was still warm.

“Did you see him?”

“Only a shadow. He rode off, Swidhelm has gone after him.”

“That man is tireless,” Éomer burst out in admiration. “The killer was in a hurry. No flowers, no positioning of the maiden; he must have been disturbed.”

Cenric nodded. “We must have been too close for his comfort. We must have scared him, and that is why he ran, but not before killing the girl.”

Éomer was torn. He wanted to follow Swidhelm and the murderer, but he had an obligation to the girl’s family as well. Besides, it would be a game of chance whether he’d find Swidhelm in the dark. More of his men now arrived.

He pointed to Cenric and Oswine. “You, follow Swidhelm if you can. I must take the body back to her family.”

The two men obeyed. The Marshal handed the reins of his horse and the torch to another Rohirrim and carefully picked up the maid, ensuring that she stayed covered. He would be slower on foot, but aid had come too late for her anyhow. He hated this part.

 

He hated it even more when, after only a couple of hours’ sleep, he and his men had to set out again. Swidhelm and Cenric and Oswine, who he had sent after him, had come back, having come to the conclusion that it would be wiser to await daylight to pursue the killer. They left behind a village in great distress and Éomer swore to himself that he would do what he could that it did not happen again.

They rode north on the fresh tracks left by the murderer and once again crossed the Limlight. The killer had ridden through the night and rested only once in the morning for a short while. And yet it did not look as if they were catching up to him. They were forced to stop soon, as both men and horses were nearly exhausted. In due time, the race continued, and although the skies were grey, they did not open for another rainstorm.

A day passed like this without them ever catching sight of their prey. Éomer still did not know what the killer looked like. His hands itched to wrap around the man’s neck and he felt sure that none of his men would hinder him.

On the second day, they were significantly closer to the killer. Apparently, he assumed that they would not follow him for so long.

“There’s another settlement a short distance from here,” Swidhelm told him, a frown on his face.

The Marshal knew what he was concerned about. So was he.

“Lead us,” he ordered.

They found the settlement calm and peaceful, the people pursuing their tasks as ever. It was autumn, there was enough to do. When they saw the riders, they approached slowly. Éomer glanced at them, men, women, boys, girls.

“Are you missing any of your women? In particular one of the maids? Éomer demanded the first one who dared come close enough to greet him.

The man looked confused.

“Quickly,” the Marshal insisted, knowing that he was coming across as abrupt.

“No, my Lord, not that I know of.”

“Check anyway. Immediately.”

A flurry of activity began, and while the women were ordered to gather and everyone looked for their sisters and daughters. Swidhelm rode out again at a sign from him, Cenric and Oswine right behind.

“Hild is missing!” A woman cried out.

Hild. Éomer knew the name of each maid who had been killed, and Hild had been one of them. That a girl with the same name had now disappeared as well... He clenched his fists.

“Where did you last see her?”

The woman shrugged. Tears stood in her eyes and she was on the brink of panic. “She was up in the field. Then she meant to go down to our hut to fetch something. I think that was the last time.”

She had been snatched somewhere between the field and her hut. It was a daring feat, in bright daylight when anyone could have seen her. Perhaps the killer had come in on horseback, pulled her onto his horse, keeping her silent with threats, and left again like the wind.

“We’ll find her.”

This time, they had to. They were so close.

At a gallop, they took the hill up and they were not too early for the signal of a horn alerted them of an alarm. Soon, they heard a woman screaming and weeping, and a weigh loosened in Éomer’s chest – as long as she was screaming, she was still alive.

Alive and mostly unhurt, he saw when they came upon Hild, merely in shock and fear. Cenric stood with her, trying to console her, but judging by his expression he had no idea what he was doing.

“Oswine and Swidhelm?” Éomer asked shortly.

“Gone after the beast. We scared him off, but he’s on horse, and it’s a good one too.”

While theirs were tired, the Marshal understood. He had to make an effort to stop grinding his teeth.

“Let’s get the girl back to the village first,” He decided.

Hild’s mother was rushing to meet them once they were in sight. The girl gladly accepted her mother’s embrace.

“Did you find the creature who did this?” A villager asked. It seemed that he was the unofficial head of the settlement.

Éomer shook his head. “We’ve been following him for days now but could never quite reach him. He has killed many girls before, and Hild is lucky we were so close. We will go after him, but our horses are exhausted, I do not expect to catch him today.”

The man’s expression turned grim.

“I cannot supply all of your men with fresh horses, but we can give you six at least.”

The Marshal looked at him in surprise. “That would be very much appreciated. We will return them on our way back.”

“As long as you take care of that beast, we will be grateful.”

“I swear it.”

“Then that is enough for me.”

The settlement consisted of only three families. Those gathered their horses and Éomer chose those who would ride ahead with him while the others would follow them at a slower pace.

They caught up quickly with Oswine and Swidhelm and Éomer instructed them to fall back. Their steeds were tired as it was and he and the other five who had received fresh horses could take over.

The tracks were so new that Éomer did not lose them out of sight even on horseback. They had reached the far north now and the Marshal could already discern the forest Dwimordene up ahead. The land was marked by hills and rocks, making it difficult to advance quickly; here where horses could easily stumble and break a leg, and so far they had not even caught a glimpse of the man they hunted.

Then the trees began. It was not quite Dwimordene yet, but they were coming closer and this was the first time that Éomer wondered whether they had been wrong in their thinking after all and the villagers correct when they accused elves of the murders.

“There,” Éomer nearly growled against his horse’s neck.

A mere glimpse it had been but Cenric had caught it as well.

“Finally. We’re not letting him escape this time. His horse won’t be able to keep this up for much longer.”

“Long enough to enter Dwimordene,” Éomer put in. “But this time we will not be cowed by that forest.”

“Definitely not, my Lord,” Cenrid agreed.

Turning in the saddle, Éomer called back so the rest of his men heard it:

“We follow him to the end! Even into Dwimordene!”

He only briefly saw their grim faces, but he trusted these men to follow his orders even if it required going into an enchanted, elven wood. They were gaining on the fleeing rider, and the murderer had seen them as well. He was kicking the horses’ flanks desperately. It was of no use, but he would not give himself up, and Éomer saw this as well. All he had to do was not turn back, no matter where the race led them.

Suddenly, the air changed.

“Dwimordene,” Cenrid noted.

Éomer was too busy to nod. The forest was getting thicker, the trees were higher than before, and unlike the last time, when they had turned back, the strange feeling only increased the deeper they ventured into the forest. The Rohirrim needed all of their skill to lead their steeds safely through the trees at the pace they were going.

They lost sight of their target only briefly, wide tree-trunks covering him. Later, Éomer would swear that it had only been for a moment. But that moment was enough for a scream to pierce the air, and a thud to reach their ears.

Éomer reflexively drew his sword but had to reign in his horse a couple of feet later. There lay their target, pierced by an arrow through the chest, clean and quick the way his victims had not had the good fortune to die. The air was dead quiet, no breeze blew on the leaves, and no matter how well Éomer studied the trees, he could see no archer.

Éomer slid off his horse and approached the body. Here was the man they had been chasing for days, the man who had kept the Wold in a state of terror for months. Éomer was nearly disappointed to see that he looked like any ordinary man, like any other Rohirrim, for that was what he was: human, and a man of Rohan. Blond hair, a slender but muscled figure, eyes brown, beard trimmed and clean. Éomer wished he looked like the beast he was.

“My lord,” Cenrid whispered in a strange voice beside him.

The Marshal looked up and did not have to look far to see what had alarmed the man: they were surrounded. He could swear that he had heard not even a whisper of movement besides his own men and their animals, and the horse of the killer taking huge breaths and dripping foam on the ground. But here they were, elven warriors armed with long bows, who aimed their arrows at them from perches both high in trees and low on the ground. The Rohirrim knew without a doubt that each of these arrows could find their mark in one of them. Their fists were tight around the hilts of their swords, but it meant nothing; none of them would have had the chance to even lift it.

“We mean no harm,” Éomer spoke up, studying one pale, terrifyingly beautiful face after another in search for the leader of this party. He hoped they understood the common tongue.

“If you did, you would be dead already,” was the reply. “We do not suffer evil in these lands.”

The elf who had spoken was tall, pale-skinned and blond just like all the others. Yes, their features differed, they did not look exactly the same, but for someone who had never caught even a glimpse of an elf before, it was all too new. He wore a green cloak and since everyone else wore a grey cloak he guessed that this was the leader.

Éomer cleared his throat.

“I apologize for intruding on your lands. I was sent by Théoden King to apprehend a killer of women on the Wold. We were chasing after him and so followed him here.”

“And you are?”

“Éomer, son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark.”

The elf studied him. At last he added: “And the King’s nephew.” Before Éomer had a chance to do more than gape, he continued. “I’m Rúmil, captain of the southern guard.”

“How do you know...”

“Make no mistake, Éomer, son of Éomund,” Rúmil interrupted. “We in Lórien are not ignorant and our Lady sees what goes on in Middle-earth.”

“The witch is real then,” Cenrid blurted out, quieting abruptly when the elven captain directed his steely gaze at him.

“We do not appreciate the Lady Galadriel being called a ‘witch’.” He turned back to the Marshal. “You have what you came for. Now we ask that you leave and take this man with you.” He nodded towards the body. “We will escort you.” 

Cenrid and Wigmund picked the body up and slung it over his horse. They would lead their horses out of the woods, the elves following them or keeping abreast them on either side like shadows.

Éomer forgot to be grateful that the killer was dead until they had left Dwimordene behind and the elves had disappeared without a sound nor a goodbye.

“Strange folk,” Cenrid murmured in a low voice, as if fearing that the elves could still hear them. Éomer couldn’t exclude that they could.

* * *

By the time they returned to Edoras, the cold had really set in. The first flakes of snow had even reached the capital, and Théodred had returned to Helm’s Deep. Théoden was pleased that the slayer of the Wold had been taken care of, but in a private conversation with Éomer he looked thoughtful and was reserved about commenting on the elves.

Reluctantly, Éomer offered to swear his men to silence and the King looked as if he wanted to take him up on the offer. But in the end he shook his head.

“They will probably already have told their friends or companions; it’s too late for that. Ultimately, it does not matter. We have never had relations with Dwimordene, and that will not change.”

Éomer wondered why but had to concede that the elves had not looked as if they wanted to pick up any contact on their side either. Otherwise, he felt certain, he would have had a chance to speak to someone other than a captain of the guard.

Éowyn greeted him when he left the room. He gave her a one-armed hug and studied her face because it was the first time he had the chance to look at a maid who was not dead.

“I’m fine,” his sister said unasked. She gave him a searching look.

“I know.”

He poked her under her chin like he had when they were children as if to assure himself that the skin of her throat would not open up and start gushing blood. His sister was fast, and she quickly trapped his hand in her fist.

“Did you find who did it?” She inquired.

“Yes, we did. He’s dead.” He did not say more, although he could have told her so much. But he found that he didn’t want to. He was tired and grimy and he wanted a hot bath, ale, and mind-numbing peace.

“Then all is well. I’ll draw you a bath, brother.”

“Thanks.”

Bless her for knowing exactly what he needed. He patted her on the head just because he could and let her go. Théoden wanted him to go back to the Aldburg before the winter set in fully and he wondered whether Éowyn would mind spending the winter there with him. He was certain that at least in exchange for a promise of sword lessons she would agree. Walking on to his quarters, he put his mind off murderers and elves and thought of the grain stores in the Aldburg instead.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Notes:**  
>  _Dwimordene:_ the Rohirrims' name for the Golden Wood (Lothlórien).  
>  _Second Marshal of the Riddermark:_ based in the Helm's Deep; filled by Prince Théodred  
>  _Third Marshal of the Riddermark:_ based at Aldburg in the Folde; filled by Éomer
> 
>   **Sources for all things Middle-earth:**  
> [Tolkien Gateway](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Main_Page)  
> [Encyclopedia of Arda](http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/default.asp)


End file.
